


Walls Fall Revealing

by Kicker



Series: Red Flags and Flight Suits [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV First Person, POV Maxson, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recruitment isn't their goal in the Commonwealth, but it shouldn't be a surprise if it happens. The glorious Brotherhood of Steel. Inspirational. Aspirational.</p><p>If the person who heeds that unspoken call is a bloodstained mercenary with murderous eyes? Maybe they should be a bit more cautious.</p><p>This is the story of how an Elder met his match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Guide to the series:  
> 1\. [The Smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103)  
> 2\. [The Angst](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608) (this one)  
> 3\. [The Liar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359)  
> 4\. [The Dame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120)

  
I've read the reports. Seen all the intel we've gathered. Paladin Danse has assured me that she is an asset to the Brotherhood.

She doesn't look like it.

Common drifter gear, a dusty leather jacket that doesn't even cover her wrists. Ripped red scarf around her neck. Mismatched pieces of armor strapped over her legs. She looks like she's just been dragged up from the gutter. Typical mercenary trash.

Her eyes are restless, always looking around the room, distracted by anything and everything. I'm sure that's helpful in a firefight. Dull knife in her belt, an old hunting rifle on her back that she tosses around carelessly, like it's not the only thing between her and oblivion.

To her credit, she stands straight-backed, moves soft-footed. In another world she could be described as elegant. In another world, where such a thing might be useful. As it happens, she is from another world. Not that she's told me. Not that she's told _us_. She left us to find that out by ourselves.

I see a woman, stepping out of a vault. Blinking in the pallid sunlight of a broken world. A head above the rest of us, she thinks, we who have lived in it all our lives. A relic from a retrograde time, a time that brought us all to ruin, the time that brought us to _this_.

But for now, she's useful to me. Missions are completed, with minimal expense. Simple tasks, so far, so as not to tax a civilian who's not had a single day's training. She is a resource to be exploited. And we are exploiting her to the full. This is why she's standing before me now. The Paladin at her shoulder, proud sponsor. I've accepted her into the fold, against my better judgement. I've informed her of her duty, her obligations. Now I have to remind her that she has not yet adopted Brotherhood uniform. Perhaps it has slipped her mind, perhaps she has not yet had time to obtain it.

Perhaps she should remedy that.

She looks down at herself.

"I prefer this," she says.

"It is not about preferences, Knight," I reply. "It's about orders. I am giving you an order."

Danse frowns. "There are safety aspects to consider, as well. In power armor, it's far better to wear a flight suit for the ventilation and fireproofing."

"I never wear power armor," she says. "If I did, the suit would be the most appropriate choice. As it stands, this is better."

"It's also about representing the Brotherhood, and our ideals," says Danse. "Solidarity, and strength."

"It's also bright orange," she says. "Let's go scope out a raider den, dark and full of leather-clad psychopaths. Which one of us gets shot at first?"

So. The protégé argues back. How interesting.

The debate between them continues for a little while. I allow it. The fluency of it tells me a great deal. They've had this argument before. They've had this argument a number of times. And that is far too intimate a relationship for a Paladin and a Knight. Perhaps an inappropriate relationship.

But I'll have to come back to that. This isn't about Danse, right now.

I hold up my hand to quiet them.

"I don't take kindly to my orders being disobeyed," I say.

"So give better orders," she says.

I hope that for her, this is an occasion when time slows. She'll realise that what she's said is altogether out of line. Her face will drop. She will rush to the apology like a child to his mother's skirts.

But she doesn't. She doesn't look at Danse for support. She doesn't look awkwardly at her fingers. She doesn't look out of the window behind me, feigning disinterest. She looks me straight in the eye, as though she has that right. _Give better orders_.

"Disrespecting your superiors. Disobeying orders." I say. "I could have you up on disciplinary charges."

"Go ahead," she says.

"I could eject you from the Brotherhood, and this ship, this very moment."

"Your choice," she says.

It is my choice. She is right in that, at least. I could choose to throw her out. Perhaps I should throw her out. Perhaps I should do so right now. I should pick her up by the collar, drag her out to the flight deck, throw her onto the floor of a vertibird and be rid of her.

Challenging me, on my own ship. Absurd.

"Whatever you decide," she says, "I'll send you a postcard from the Institute. When I get in."

Her hands are clasped behind her back, her face calm. But it's a barb. A fang, dripping venom. Her people are working on it, she says. She has information, she says. But as yet, she has failed to share any of that information with us. And now she dares to claim that level of certainty?

Danse. What have you done, bringing this onto my ship. You say she's skilled, that she has talents, that she's a capable soldier. But if she cannot follow a simple order, what good is she to me?

What did she do, at your outpost, to make you revere her so?

"Knight," I say, "It sounds as though you are threatening to withhold your assistance. Which, I might remind you, was freely given."

She makes no reply. I look over my shoulder. Her eyes are there, waiting for mine.

"Elder," she says, "it sounds like you'd reject that assistance because I won't pour myself into a flight suit for you."

Her scarf catches the light, glowing bright like fresh blood.

There's a long pause. No. Time does not slow. It does not slow for me. It rushes on, unstoppable.

"You have your orders," I say. "Dismissed. And you, Paladin."

Let's see what she does with that.

What she does with it is ignore it. Predictably. We'll have to revisit the conversation, and soon. But in the meantime, there are benefits. It's not unpleasant to walk through the ship, see her shirt fall a little open as she leans into a mouthful of noodles. Perhaps she sees me looking. Perhaps she doesn't. That's not my concern.

Or at a power armor station, as her Paladin pointlessly tries to train her. She reaches above her head to steady a weight, a stripe of bare skin showing above her pants. Danse? Oblivious. Me? She's just part of the scenery, part of the constantly-moving backdrop of an airship.

Or in Quinlan's office, perched on his desk, his cat on her lap. Leaning forward, again, absent-mindedly kneading her fingers into its fur as he explains the significance of what she's brought him. She can't possibly understand. She nods like she does.

Then Ingram stops me one day. Asks me why I'm patrolling. Asks if I'm worried about something.

I'm not patrolling, I say. I'm just taking a walk. Checking on the operations of my ship.

Repeatedly. Day after day. Night after night.

Perhaps she has a point. Perhaps I am allowing myself to be distracted.

And by such a petty distraction.

I head back to my duties, but of course. There she is. Standing outside the Paladin's quarters. I say outside, but all I can see is a pair of legs as she leans into the room, her entire weight hanging from fingers gripping tight around the door frame.

"Don't worry," she says, "I'm not coming in, I know it'd be inappropriate, but you're not going to find the fucking thing so just let me help, ok?"

A muffled voice in return.

"Seriously, look, my toes are outside the door. There is no Knight in the Paladin's quarters, your honor is intact."

There is, in fact, quite a lot of the Knight in the Paladin's quarters.

Her tone is exasperated. "Look, it's right there under your desk. Did you even look there? Fuck's sake, Danse."

She pulls herself upright with strong shoulders and muttered curses. Leans back against the door frame, hands on hips. I note that her elbow is still crossing over the threshold of his room. She sees me. Her eyes pass over me, blank. Disinterested in me. Distracted by him.

"Oh my god," she's saying. "Come on, Danse, we've got places to go, people to see."

This constant stream of disrespect is infuriating.

"Knight," I say, "that is no way to speak to your commanding officer."

She regards me for a moment. "My apologies, Elder," she says. She leans her head into the room, maintaining eye contact.

"Come on, Paladin," she says, "people to do, places to see."

I don't recognise the verbal slip until I'm level with her, and Danse is standing tall in the doorway.

"Elder," he says. Polite. As always.

I still haven't asked him what happened at the station.

As I turn the handle of my door, I look back. Her face is turned towards me, even as Danse is talking to her, inaudible. I can't read her expression. I have to change that. I have to find out what it means. What she wants. What she's doing here. Because if I can't, she is no longer an asset. She's a danger.

And I know how to deal with those.

For a while, business proceeds, as normal. Her service is adequate. But reports are still coming in about her. I've made sure of that. And they've been getting more alarming. She's been keeping regrettable company, it seems. A synth, in Diamond City. Local militia, in some decrepit old ruin to the south. With them, she holds a significant position, of which she neglected to inform us.

Questions must be asked. Must be answered. I plan to bring her in, with Danse, have it all out.

And that's when she disappears.

"How, exactly, did you come to lose her?" I say.

Danse is more concerned than I am. I can see it clearly in his eyes, in his creased brow. As is proper; she is his charge. She is his responsibility. And if he cannot keep track of a common hireling like her, then perhaps I should be concerned about his competence.

"She said she had a personal matter to attend to," he says. "We arranged a rendezvous, but she never arrived."

"A personal matter?"

First rule, Paladin. Stick together. Always stick together.

"I'm sorry, Elder. I fully expected her to return within the day."

It's been five.

Quinlan hands me a file, with a dark look. A recent sighting of our errant Knight. In Goodneighbor. A den of iniquity, soaked in chems and crime.

A refuge for ghouls. For drifters. For mercenary scum.

I will go myself. I will grab her by the neck. I will drag her out, penitent and cooperative, or I will throw her back in the gutter where she belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359/chapters/13663663)


	2. Five

I've been waiting for her to return. Waiting for her to come back, so that I can throw her out again. I have it all planned out, the exact words, the exact audience. So now, I fix her in the eye, tell her she's a disgrace, tell her to turn in any of our property. Strip her of her title. Grab her by the collar, drag her out of the observation deck and off my ship.

Except, she hasn't returned. This is all in my mind. And it seems that my mind has a trick in store for me. We're not going to a vertibird. My traitorous mind has me dragging her to my quarters. She steps inside, pulls off her jacket, tosses it aside. Her gaze rests on me, her smile warm and affectionate. She presses up close, hands on my chest. Brushes her lips over my cheek, whispering in my ear.

_You fucking asshole._

I can't face her. But I don't have to face her. I delegate. Kells and Quinlan are custodians of her orders. Danse is her sponsor, defender, warden. I don't need to see her at all. I hear second-, third-hand that she came back. Left again. I was none the wiser. Better that way.

So as I walk the ship now, sleepless, restless, not even knowing what hour it is, the sight of her hits me like knuckles smashing into my ribs. I stand at the edge of the walkway, see movement by the storage cases below. It's her, kneeling over a pack, the one she always has with her. Unpacking, repacking, balancing the weight. She's holding an item that I can't identify, but it's wrapped in a stained cloth. Bloodstained, if I'm not mistaken.

A squire approaches, just a boy. She tucks the item away, greets him with a smile. She's something of a celebrity, it seems. We all want to know what she's about. What she's smuggling. What's in the pack, Knight? Is that blood?

She's holding up a small black box. A Stealth Boy. Forbidden technology, not permitted on the Prydwen, not permitted for use by any member of the Brotherhood. I shouldn't be surprised to see her in possession of one, but I am alarmed to see her flaunting it so openly.

"But look at this," she's saying.

She stands up, and she's holding a long black coat in her hands. Leather, it appears, new leather, gleaming under the lights. She puts it on, pulls it around her shoulders, and turns up the collar. Then she frowns, heavily, and fixes the squire with a dark look. "I'm Elder Maxson," she says in a deep voice. "Go do stuff. I don't care what, but you can't enjoy it. Ad Victoriam, brother."

The child covers his mouth with his hands, stifling a laugh.

She kneels in front of the child, her face bright, amused. "Never tell him I did that, alright? He'll eat me alive."

"Like the deathclaw?" asks the squire.

"Worse than the deathclaw," she says. "They won't even write poems about me."

I find my hands gripping tight on the railing, knuckles whitening. I thought she'd be pleased with herself, after that little performance. But she's drawing to her feet, face shadowed, unreadable. She sends the squire away. Run along, boy. Go to bed, or go to class, or do whatever you normally do at this time of day.

She doesn't know what time it is, either.

The coat is half off her shoulders when I hear her name, called in a deep voice. She stops, mid-shrug, coat pulling her shirt to the side, a flash of bare shoulder. Like a cheap pin-up.

"Danse," she says.

He comes into view. He's tense, anxious. Feelings made clear by his expression, by his bearing. An open book. He has that liberty.

"We need to talk," he says.

"What about?" she asks, slipping the coat down her back, off her arms.

I can't close my eyes. If I do, I see a dress made of fire. I hear her heels, tapping across tiles. Smell the smoke and whiskey on her hair.

She folds the coat into the pack, alongside the Stealth Boy and whatever other blood-soaked treasures she's carrying around with her.

"You know what this is about," he says, "we should not have let it go."

"She was not our objective," she says.

"Nor was the other one," says Danse, sharply. "I received no mission briefing. You took us there. You're withholding information from me."

I hadn't realised that. I've been thinking of him as being complicit in her actions; perhaps she's stringing him along as much as she is me.

Us.

 _All_ of the Brotherhood.

"It's complicated," she says.

"So explain."

She doesn't reply. Just plays with the buckles on the pack. 

"If you can't trust me, I can't trust you," he says.

Is that a sigh, or just the wind? He holds out his hand. She hesitates for a moment, then takes it. Lets him draw her to her feet. Throws the pack over her shoulder, and leads him away out of view.

A new day dawns, or at least a new set of duty rosters roll around. Proctor Ingram has called me down to Engineering. We're talking about schematics, files, briefings, when volumes start to rise on the other side of the room. The Paladin and the Knight, kneeling in front of an armor station. He's pointing at some part of the suit, trying to explain it, and she's just shaking her head and laughing at him.

"Danse, just... stop. I'm not going to understand. I'm not an engineer, never will be."

"You could be, if you gave it time, if you practiced. You should be able to maintain your own equipment."

She sighs. "Isn't enough that I can get in it and move around without falling over?"

"That's what it's designed for," says Danse.

"I'm just saying that all the time I spend here, not understanding, I could be somewhere else. Improving something else. Or eating something."

He doesn't reply. Just looks at her.

"That is a hint," she says. 

"Hey," says Ingram, "can you keep it down over there? I'm trying to report to the Elder."

Danse looks up from the dispute. "My apologies, Proctor."

He stands, holds out his hand. Helps the Knight to her feet. She doesn't even look at him as he pulls her up, just expects him to be there. Knows she can rely on him.

I feel a stab of jealousy. Childish. 

Ingram is continuing to speak, dragging my attention away. More items to add to the list of 'things to do if we get into the Institute.'

No. Not if. _When_.

As I'm walking back through the ship, I'm surprised to hear an altercation begin in the mess hall. Less so when I see who's involved. An Initiate is expressing sentiments with which a certain Knight does not seem to agree. Danse is putting a warning hand on her arm, but she's shaking it off. She clasps her hands behind her back and raises her chin. A slight frown. The same frown she put on for the squire, just a few hours ago.

"Tell me how you identify a third generation synth," she says.

"They have components in their brains. Ma'am."

She nods. "Tell me how you find such a component, before the bearer of it is dead."

"You can't, ma'am. You can infer from behavior."

"Can you?" she says. "Hey, you forgot to put the cap on the toothpaste." She curls her fingers into a gun, mimes shooting the Initiate with a pop of the lips. "No component. What then? "

The Initiate is silent. Neither of them have spotted me.

"Enough of this," I say. "Get back to your duties."

The Knight forgets her hunger. Nods and leaves. The Initiate is clutching a bowl of noodles, staring at me wide-eyed. As is Danse.

I should reprimand her. It would be better to do so here, in front of her peers, but that moment's hesitation allowed her to get away. I follow her, find her outside Quinlan's office. His cat is circling in the doorway, mewling at her. She crouches down, talks to it. Picks it up, cradles it against her shoulder. The animal is all teeth and claws with everyone else, but it lets her carry it like a baby. 

I wait for her to straighten up before I speak. I should have spoken earlier. I should have stopped her before she entered the corridor, but it's too late for that now. Too late for a lot of things.

"Knight," I say, and it sounds more like a curse every time I say it. "I don't want to see or hear you challenging Brotherhood ideals again."

"I wasn't challenging anything," she says. "Merely... presenting some food for thought."

"There is a time and a place," I say. "That was neither."

Her fingers curl into the cat's fur, scratching behind its ears.

It is not her place to philosophise.

It is not her place to educate my men.

This cannot continue.

"Come with me," I say.

"I was about to speak to Proctor Quinlan," she says.

"Now," I say.

She returns the cat to the floor. Behind me, as I walk, her feet tap softly on metal deck, on ladders, past tinkering mechanics and watchful Knights. The observation deck. Safe. How many times have I been in this same room, briefing or talking to one of my men? From the outside, there is nothing unusual about this.

I pour drinks. Two drinks. It's light outside but if it's an inappropriate time, she doesn't show it. Takes the glass.

"Your circumstances are exceptional," I say, "but your behavior is unacceptable."

She says nothing, just meets my eyes. Steps back, to a respectable distance, turns her attention to the outside world.

"You're disobeying orders," I say, "disrespecting me to my crew."

Her head turns; perhaps she thought I hadn't noticed. She's probably wondering what I've seen, or who's been reporting to me. Not expecting me to stalk through the shadows, I suppose. I doubt anybody would expect that. Even me.

"It's disruptive," I say. "Conspicuously disruptive. I can't have that."

"That's probably fair," she says.

I have nothing else to say. I wasn't expecting her to agree. I was expecting a fight. Perhaps I was hoping for it; would it be easier, that way? A quick argument, a parting of ways. I could be forgiven for thinking that's what she wanted all along.

Instead, we stand in silence. She empties her glass, places a hand flat on the window, leaning down to look through the filthy pane. You can almost see the Commonwealth, down there. Rad-soaked sea, mutant-infested ruins. Shattered concrete and dry bones. Barely worth protecting, if you aren't thinking of the bigger picture.

"Okay," she says, standing back up to face me. "Let's not fuck around. This is your world. Down there is mine. If you follow me down there again, I will have you on your knees."

Her eyes burn into mine. These are the eyes her enemies see. The last ones they see. And now they're trained on me.

"This _is_ my world," I say, "so I suggest you start acting accordingly."

She nods.

Is that agreement? I'm not sure, but she holds out her glass. I fill it, glass scraping glass as she tilts it to meet the bottle.

A truce, then. Of sorts.

Except, barely a week later, I am asking the Paladin how he is once again returning to the Prydwen without his charge.

She had taken him to Diamond City. The great green jewel of the Commonwealth. She needed to speak to someone, she said. That someone turned out to be a synth. A synth that thinks it's a detective.

"I simply let my objections be known. She turned on me. She threatened me."

The placid giant, her stalwart defender since the moment she arrived on his doorstep. Disappointment radiating from him. He might actually be angry.

So. He's not immune, either.

"Paladin," I say. "You are her commanding officer. You should be able to give her an order and have her comply immediately."

"I should," he says. "But I can't. She's untrained. Undisciplined. Unpredictable. But..."

Are you thinking the same as me, Danse? Are you turning adjectives in your mind, deciding which incriminate you the least?

"She's a fine soldier when she puts her mind to it," he says. "I just wish she'd do that more."

That doesn't make me feel any better.

Four days, it takes. Quinlan places the folder in my hands. Goodneighbor. There is a warning in his voice when he asks if I will retrieve her myself. Again.

I ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Six](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359/chapters/13737562)  
> Previous chapter:[Four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120/chapters/13874929)


	3. Nine

I came back without her. It's to do with her investigation. We have to leave her to it. There are places in the Commonwealth where the Brotherhood can't go. We have to trust her to do the right thing.

If only this weren't the second time I'd come back with that story.

My authority still stands. I say the words, and Danse nods. Their friendship, or whatever it is, is clearly hanging by a thread. But hearing that she's still dedicated to the Brotherhood seems to calm him.

I wish I knew it was true. I wish it did the same for me.

Eventually, a runner comes with the news that she's on her way back. She's on a vertibird right now.

I feel nauseous.

By the time I get out to the vertibirds, the Paladin is already there. Which means someone informed him before they informed me. He's facing her out on the walkway, towering over her. It's a standoff, of sorts. The Knight and the Paladin. Passing Initiates and Lancers equally uncertain how to react. This is uncharacteristic, from him.

She's windswept, angry, on the defensive. "I won't apologise for what I said."

"You chose a synth over the Brotherhood," says Danse.

"He was the best person for the job," she says. "It's not always about mashing skulls."

"It was a synth, Knight," he says, "not a person."

"He's a better person than either of us. And he's my friend, Danse. HE. He is a HE."

"How can you possibly be friends with a machine?" he says, incredulous.

"How do you normally make friends, Danse?" she asks. "Or is that a stupid question?"

He's shaking his head.

"I'll give you a hint. You talk to them. Find you have things in common. Find things you admire in them. Maybe you hang out, do fun stuff together. Then you realise that you like spending time with them and want to do it more. Sound familiar? Or did the Brotherhood train that out of you, too?"

"What can you possibly have in common with a synth?"

The wind threatens to pull the scarf from her neck. "We both like puzzles," she says, catching it.

"Synths are dangerous," he says.

She laughs, winding the scarf around her fist like she's preparing for a fight. "Arc-Jet," she's saying, "I set fire to you. I actually set fire to you. How's that for dangerous?"

"It's hardly a comparable situation," he says.

"This is ridiculous," she says. "I'm not going to argue about this. He's my friend. End of story."

She extends her hand, palm up. He doesn't move. Whatever she says next is taken away on the wind. But he reaches out, and takes it.

Now she sees me. Her eyes are tired, her smile weak. I'd hoped for more. Not exactly for her to run across the walkway and into my arms, but... more than this. I'm more disappointed than I want to admit.

"Knight," I say.

"Elder," she says. "I'll report to Quinlan immediately."

Official. Polite. She nods, and before I can say another word, she's brushing past me and into the ship.

Her return unleashes a rush of activity. Folders, schematics, briefings. Groups of officers leaning over maps and schematics. She's short-tempered, frustrated, stabbing her finger at papers.

"I can't be in both places at the same time."

"Why would I go there first? That makes no sense."

"Is there really no other team capable of doing this?"

There have been hours of this. It's late. Dark. We come to some kind of conclusion, some sort of order of operations. Everyone withdraws and finally I am left to myself, to the nightly ritual. Retire to my quarters. Shut the door and bolt it. Find whichever bottle has the most in it and pretend I didn't need to sleep in the first place.

Forehead on the doorframe, I hear a sound. Metal on metal. Or glass, sliding across a rough surface.

She's here. Leaning against the table. My table. Pushing a glass toward me with the back of her index finger, past a Stealth Boy that lies innocuously beside the bottle.

"I wanted to talk to you," she says. "Privately."

A locked door, under constant surveillance, a ship in ceaseless motion. A Knight and an Elder. Alone.

I don't care. I circle the table. Take the drink, and welcome the fire that spills down my throat.

Her ankles are crossed, her fingers curled around the edge of the table. Just like before. When she looks up at me, I can't not run my fingers down her cheeks. Press my lips into hers. She responds to my touch, eyes closing, cheeks hot under my hands.

Her perfume lingered on my collar for too short a time. I smell it again, now, a sweetness under the whiskey and smoke. I breathe her in, the breath catching in my throat as I run fingers along her belt. Seventeen days, it's been. Seventeen days since I tasted her. Seventeen days since I've been able to think of anything else.

"Turn around," I say, close against her ear.

"No," she says.

Cheek to cheek, hip to hip. Heart hammering in my chest.

"I didn't come here for that," she says, turning her face away.

I let go. I take a step back. Two steps. Her chest is rising and falling as fast as mine.

Both as guilty as each other.

"The Institute," she says. "That's where I've been."

I hadn't asked. She's been back for hours. Hours of daylight. Hours we could have used to do something with this information. And she sneaks into my quarters using forbidden technology to tell me of it.

I pour my own drink.

"I have data," she says. "A holotape. It's encrypted, I don't know what's on it, but I'm sure you have the expertise. Dr Li is on her way back for Prime."

I hadn't asked her how. But she holds up her wrist. The Pip-Boy, screen dark. "It's been modified," she says. "I'm free to come and go as I please, so if there's anything else, I'm... yours."

I should be jubilant. She should be jubilant. This is the first victory on the way to the greater goal. But her eyes are downcast. And I am furious. She's done this without us, without me. Has she compromised herself? What has she done? How do I fix this?

How do I drag her out of a place I can't even go?

"Why are you telling me this now? Here?"

"I wanted to talk to you without anyone else around. No other eyes, no other ears. Nobody to prove anything to."

What could possibly be so important? What difference would that make to my response?

"It's not just a factory for synths," she continues. "It's food production. Medical science. Fantastically advanced systems. And it's not just crazy scientists, it's people. Families."

It doesn't matter. It's them or us. Everything else is collateral damage.

I say as much. Her eyes close, just for a moment. But this is the line. This is the Brotherhood line. It doesn't change, no matter who's saying it, no matter who's there to hear it. It's them or us.

"Report to the Proctor," I say. "With the holotape. First thing in the morning."

Her eyes are clear, her face calm. She nods, and rolls the stealth device in her hands, fingers brushing over the controls. "Open the door," she says.

It's an order. Not one I want to hear. I want her to stay, but I know she won't. Know she can't. Even a device like that wouldn't explain away an absence of hours.

She draws back, then disappears, into nothing more than a shimmer in the air.

I unbolt the door. Open it. Look up and down the corridor a couple of times. I thought I heard something, is all. Just getting some air. Deceiving myself as much as the crew.

The door clicks shut. The air stills. I rest my forehead on the doorframe. I drink the rest of the bottle, lying on my bunk. Time passes, like she was never here in the first place.

Now it's morning. Or so the clock says. She's due to go out into the Glowing Sea. Her head had dropped when she received the order.

"Nothing to worry about," Danse had said. "Just like a radstorm."

"Yeah," she had muttered, "because those are awesome."

We're both at the armor station early, by accident or design. She's standing in front of her armor, hands on hips, looking up at its darkened helmet. She looks nervous. I tell her she shouldn't be. This is the third time she's been into the Sea. She'll have the Paladin with her. It should be a routine operation.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be," she says. "But I am. I don't like going there. I don't like what's in there. I don't like the side-effects of Rad-X and I do not like wearing power armor."

She sighs, heavily, pats her hand on the chest plate. As though she's apologising to it.

"However," she says, with a sideways glance at me, "it is a great opportunity to add another couple of notches to my deathclaw tally."

"It's not a competition," I say.

"No," she says. "It's really not."

True to her word, she's only now wearing her flight suit now she has to wear the power armor. Though she still has the red scarf around her neck, and the boots are not Brotherhood issue. I hope it's a sign. One of her loyalty. Her allegiance to the Brotherhood. A childish part of me hopes it's a sign of more.

Danse arrives, feet heavy on the ground. "Time to suit up," he calls, already heading toward his armor.

She pulls the scarf loose, loops it through the hand of her suit.

I hadn't asked why. But she tells me.

"It's my favor," she says, stepping around the suit and opening it up. "The lady gives the brave Knight her favor, before he goes into battle. But the lady in this case is the brave Knight, so she shall bestow her favor upon herself."

Once inside, she pulls the scarf free, holding it up high on metal fingers. "Oh brave Knight, carry my favor with you so that you might see glory this day."

It falls to the ground, cutting a blood-red streak through the air.

"I think I'm supposed to pick it up and carry it with me, but now it's down there and I'm in here." She leans over it, her voice distorted by the suit. "Or was I supposed to tie it on my weapon?"

"That would affect the balance and accuracy of your rifle," says Danse. "I would not recommend it."

She laughs, and straightens up.

"We should be going," says Danse.

"Lead on, Paladin," she says.

They lope towards a vertibird, metal feet clashing on metal decks. Initiates, Scribes, Lancers and all stand back and show them due respect as they pass. Two steel giants, on their way to help build the third, down below.

The scarf burns a guilty hole in my pocket, wound around my fingers.

While they're gone, after they return, the Prydwen is a hive of activity. Vertibirds docking and undocking, carrying materials back and forth to the airport, collecting more from the Glowing Sea. We're almost ready to take the fight to the Institute. Everything is falling into place.

A cough, behind me. Quinlan hands me a file. Directly into my hand. A warning in his eyes. Again.

This time, it's not about her. Except... it is.

"Danse?" I ask. "You're positive."

Quinlan nods, face grim. We both know what this means.

Give better orders, she said.

This is probably the worst order I'll ever have to give.

That's exactly why I have to give it to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Ten](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359/chapters/13789339)  
> Previous chapter: [Eight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120/chapters/13927917)


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